AUTHOR'S NOTE:
I'm finally back with this story! I can't even tell you how much trouble and frustration this chapter has caused me. I had some of those scenes envisioned or written for months, but wrangling them into a coherent narrative made me want to tear my hair out. I'm still afraid it's a bit too disjointed, but I truly want to finally get to the next part of the story. I hope I will be able to update sooner than in three months.
As usual, thank you so much for sticking with this story. I hope you will enjoy this update, despite its flaws.
"Your case is certainly interesting, Mr Crawley," Dr Coates says with a glint in his eyes which Matthew finds vaguely unsettling. He remembers his father and his doctor friends getting a similar one when encountering a patient with symptoms unique enough to pull them out of their routine and give rise to something like enthusiasm. The words "paper" and "conference" usually followed. Dr Coates' next words only confirm that he's on the right track. "With your permission, I would like to use it for a paper. It could be a significant step to our understanding of spinal injuries."
"In what way?" asks Mary shrewdly before Matthew can force himself to open his mouth.
"I don't believe you are suffering from a severed spinal cord at all," Do Coates explains eagerly. "See this shadow here on your x-rays? It's getting clear now that it's the swelling and the bruise compressing it and impending both feeling and control, a common enough consequence of a spinal shock. The unusual nature of it lies in its duration; spinal shock usually wears off within weeks, not months. Yet in your case the only improvement you've experienced is the return of bladder control, increasing sensations in your legs and response to powerful stimuli."
"But what's the prognosis then?" asks Matthew, his mouth dry from his dread of the answer. He's gripping the armrests of his chair so hard that his fingers go white. Mary lays her hand on his, squeezing it in support, and it gives him courage to elaborate on his question. "Is there a chance of further recovery or is my spine going to remain bruised forever?"
Dr Coates' look is serious when he answers.
"Your spine will likely always remain bruised, Mr Crawley," he asks, raising his hand in a calming gesture before Matthew's hopes can fully plummet at his words. "However, that doesn't mean that you won't experience further improvement. The swelling keeps lessening, albeit slowly. Compare your x-rays from October and the current one – do you see the difference? It's been six months since your injury; at this rate I don't expect you to heal at a much faster pace than it's happening now, but you will likely continue healing."
Matthew's head turns dizzy.
"But what does it mean?" he asks somehow desperately through the distant buzzing in his ears. "Will I be able to walk? Father another child?"
He feels himself blushing at the blurted question, but he needs to know. He feels Mary's fingers tighten on his.
"I unfortunately cannot promise you how far is your recovery going to progress," says Dr Coates regretfully. "However, I can tell you two things. Firstly, it will progress. I can't tell you how far yet, but it will. At the very least I expect the return of the feeling in your legs, likely some level of control over them as well. As to the degree of returned sexual functions I'm less certain, since that aspect varies widely between patients with spinal injuries. There may be the return of feeling, but not control, the opposite, problems with maintaining erection, the completion of the act or decreased fertility – or no problems at all. But the second thing I can tell you is that any progress you may experience hinges hugely on you."
"How?" whispers Matthew, the spinning of his head getting worse.
"It will require a lot of hard work," says Dr Coates simply. "Possibly the hardest you've ever done in your life. You've been bound to a bed and later to a chair for half a year; your muscles have deteriorated to a great degree as a result, although I can say you've been doing your maintenance exercises and physical therapy diligently, which is fantastic for your hope of eventual recovery. But there won't be any leaping out of this chair, Mr Crawley. The further the swelling retreats the more the feeling will return to your lower body, but you will have to fight for every inch of control over it. It will mean hours of daily therapy and exercises, for months, likely for years."
"But I will walk if I do that?" asks Matthew desperately.
Dr Coates smiles.
"I can't promise you what walking will look like for you," he warns. "But yes, Mr Crawley – I do believe you may have a chance of getting out of your chair if you put the work in."
xxx
They leave the clinic dizzy and stunned, too out of it to talk much on the way to their rented set of rooms in Belgravia. Aunt Rosamund invited them to stay at Eaton Square and Robert offered to open Grantham House for them, of course, but unlike any of those grand houses, their apartment building has a lift; a comfort Matthew finds priceless enough to more than justify the expense. Sybil has promptly moved in with them, sighing in relief at escaping Aunt Rosamund's well meant machinations to introduce her to eligible bachelors. Mary expects Tom Branson to show up at their doorstep within days.
She hardly thinks about her sister's intended misalliance when William assists Matthew into the house. A confirmation that their hope for Matthew's recovery has been justified! It boggles the mind.
"He didn't promise how far the recovery can go," warns Matthew, his whole expression guarded and cautious. Mary's heart twinges at the obvious fear behind that caution, but it only makes her more determined to hope strongly enough for both of them.
"But he did say you will recover," she insists, lying down on the bed where William has helped Matthew to transfer. His beck is still sore after the train journey and the visit to the doctor and the subsequent examination didn't help any. "You will get better – we just don't know how much."
Matthew stares blankly at the ceiling for a long time.
"I don't want to tell anybody about it," he says finally. "Not until we know more for sure. I can't deal with everyone's hopes and expectations – it's hard enough to deal with yours and my own."
Mary shrugs.
"Then we won't," she says indifferently. "You know I'm good at keeping secrets. Then one day we will come to Downton for dinner and I will walk into the dining room on your arm."
He looks at her with alarm and Mary curses her hasty tongue. She's so giddy with happiness she's nearly trembling from it, but she knows how much Matthew fears trusting it to be real. She should have known better than to make light of it yet.
"Darling," he implores, only confirming what she's already realised, "please, please don't. Just… don't. We don't know if I will walk again. We don't know anything – not for sure. Please, let's not talk about future scenarios yet. Not when it may all yet into castles on shifting sands."
"Of course," she assures him quickly, giving him a brief kiss on the cheek. "Of course, my darling. We won't talk about it yet."
But for all she says to settle him, the giddiness filling her doesn't fade in the slightest.
Matthew may not believe that he will get out of this chair, but she does. And finally, after all those months, she doesn't feel like a fool for holding this hope.
xxx
Deciding to keep the possibility of his recovery a secret is one thing – actually keeping it secret from his mother is quite another, as Matthew realises as soon as he calls her to let her know his and Mary's stay in London is going to be extended.
"But what did the doctor say?" asks Isobel in this shrewd way of hers that never stopped Matthew from being half convinced that she could see through him as if he was transparent. Apparently it was a skill which worked for her as well through a telephone as it did in person.
"That the swelling over my spine is lessening," Matthew answers, sticking to the truth as much as humanly possible, but no less convinced about the necessity of secrecy. "Which in turns means that I should adjust my physical therapy regimen to increase the chance of retaining my current fitness and possibly improve it. He advised that I would benefit from doing it under his supervision for some weeks, especially since I'm yet to find a private nurse after the convalescent house closed down and Sybil moved to London."
"But what about the long term prognosis?" asks Isobel with her usual persistence, and Matthew nearly groans out loud. "Did he say anything about how your future recovery can look?"
"Just that it's still impossible to say," he hedges, hoping against hope that it's going to be enough to fool her. He knows better, of course, but he's still determined to try. "He confirmed that my injury is due to an incomplete lesion, which we already knew, but that it's too early for a verdict on how much of an improvement is realistic for me."
She huffs, expressing clearly that she knows he's being evasive, but thank God she relents and changes the topic for now and starts talking about the difficulties with finding suitable placements for her refugees.
xxx
It's strange to see Tom Branson out of a uniform of some kind, not that the remarkably ugly suit he's wearing is helping much. Mary would love to call him out on it – surely even with limited funds he could have found something less painful on the eyes? – but she's too well bred to do so, so she only smiles and tells him honestly that it's good to see him.
"It's been a long time," she adds and sees Tom's eyes travel to her belly.
"Clearly," he blurts out and immediately goes red in mortification, with Sybil visibly torn between glaring at him and bursting out laughing. "Please excuse me, Lady Mary, I didn't mean…" he trails off, searching for delicate enough words and coming up short.
Mary raises her eyebrows in amusement.
"Mary, if you please," she says pleasantly, adding after seeing Tom's surprise at the allowance. "I have it on good authority that you're engaged to my sister now. Congratulations, by the way."
Tom's surprise softens into joy.
"Thank you, Mary," he says, his confidence swiftly restored. "I'm looking forward to having you as a sister."
Mary can feel the expectant, incredulous stares of both Matthew and Sybil who obviously can hardly believe their eyes. She takes great pleasure in defying their poor expectations of her. Whatever she thinks of her sister's choices, Tom is going to be her brother and she's determined to treat him as such.
"Likewise," she says sweetly. "Would you like some tea?"
Tom takes to sharing a sofa with Mary and accepting a teacup from her much better than to Anna coming in with a tray of pastries and serving them to him. His awkwardness amuses Anna more than anything, but she's too much of a professional to express it in front of her employers besides a twitch of her lips. Mary suspects she's going to rib Tom mercilessly whenever she catches him alone.
Then she imagines Tom coming to Downton and dealing with Papa and Carson at the same time, and for the first time feels something resembling compassion for him. That won't be easy, even after the fallout from the reveal of their engagement. She can see why both Tom and Sybil are resolved to live as far away from Downton as possible, much as it pains her.
It doesn't mean she approves of their insane plan to settle in Ireland though.
She listens attentively when Tom describes his position with the rebel paper in Dublin and how he managed to get himself assigned to interview some politicians in London regarding their views on the Irish question.
"I can introduce you to some people from Fleet Street. Aunt Rosamund is good pals with several MPs on the liberal bench too," Mary says, thinking fast. She may not have any influence with the Irish rebel papers, but she has connections to the English ones – although she should probably count Richard out. And even if Tom stubbornly insists on prioritising his radical ideals over physical safety and a proper salary, having connections of his own won't hurt. It may even help him in his career among the rebels.
Tom has the gall to roll his eyes.
"It's nepotism," he points out.
"So?" asks Mary, admittedly confused by what exactly he finds problematic about it. "That's how things work."
It's always about who you know, it's how the aristocracy works. You always have a second cousin's uncle somewhere where they can be useful for you if you need them, and you return the favour but getting them what they or their godson needs. There's a reason aristocratic weddings have hundreds of guests. You have to keep those ties alive.
Tom goes on a passionate rant about how unfair and corrupted this system is, and Mary agrees in principle, she truly does, but she's too pragmatic to give up a clear advantage when she has one, and she sees no reason not to utilise it for her soon to be brother-in-law. Giving him a leg up in his journalistic career will benefit them all, after all, a point which clearly sits wrong with Tom too.
"Better agree to disagree," Matthew intervenes finally in clear exasperation. He enjoys a debate as greatly as Mary does, but she can see with concern that he's getting tired. The new physical therapy regime clearly takes a lot out of him. "Tom, you won't stop Mary from working on your behalf. Better go along than leave her to scheme with Cousin Violet behind your back. At least this way you'll know what's happening."
Tom groans, but doesn't quarrel about that, at least. Mary excuses herself and goes to make a call to Mr Gregson.
xxx
It's only after Mary leaves the room – followed hastily by Sybil, most likely on the mission of damage control – that Tom comes over to sit down on the sofa by Matthew's chair. He tries to be discreet but Matthew is too well-tuned to abbreviated, nervous or curious looks at his chair and his dead legs to miss the one from him. Tom has of course known for months about Matthew's situation, but the flash of pity and horror in his eyes shows clearly enough that seeing it in person is still a shock.
Months, even weeks earlier, Matthew would have bristled at that look, humiliated and resentful. Now he's come far enough to only answer it with a wry smile.
"My new wheels," he says sardonically with an expansive gesture. "Not exactly a sports car I imagined getting."
"No," Tom agrees somberly. "I'm sorry. You did not deserve it."
Matthew shrugs with a wry smile.
"So I'm still decent enough for a toff and a British officer?"
The quip does its intended job and not only puts Tom more at ease, but makes him huff a genuine laugh.
"Yeah," he agrees, his eyes twinkling. "Mostly because you've always been bad at being either. Too much brains and genuine feeling, you know."
"Maybe it's just your bias showing," Matthew teases back and feels a stirring of genuine camaraderie between them. Former chauffeur or not, a socialist or not, he has a feeling he's going to be glad to have this man as his brother-in-law.
xxx
Jack Weatherby, unlike Tom, doesn't even pretend to be discrete as he openly inspects both Matthew and his ever present chair.
"Well, it could have been worse, Crawley," he concludes breezily, in a raspy voice of a gas survivor. "You can't walk and I can't breathe, but at least we're both still pretty."
"Tell me that again when I'm not so sore from physical therapy," grumbles Matthew. "I might appreciate it more then."
Jack raises his expressive eyebrows.
"Is it so very bad?"
"Dr Coates and his staff are sadists," answers Matthew with feeling, "but they keep insisting it's all in my best interest."
Not that he disbelieves them, exactly – he works on his exercises harder than he worked on anything in his life – but any progress is way too slow if not downright illusory. What good does it do that he can hold himself up on the parallel bars and swing his legs forward if they stubbornly remain a useless, dead weight under him, unable to hold him up themselves, never mind walking? He feels more with every week, true, but he has as much control over his lower body as a chance to fly to the moon. Those new sensations are mostly painful too, anyway.
He changes the topic swiftly, thoroughly tired of considering his doubtful recovery.
"How is Reggie?" he asks with genuine concern.
He hasn't spoken with him since admitting to breaking the engagement with the man's only daughter, more than a year ago. Reggie Swire wasn't well then and has been unlikely to get much better since, but in the circumstances Matthew didn't dare to approach him.
"Poorly," answers Jack grimly. "His lungs keep giving him trouble and the doctors say his heart is getting weaker. To be frank, he doesn't expect to live longer than a year, two at most."
"Poor man," whispers Matthew, shaken for all that he expected to hear nothing different. "Poor Lavinia. How is she holding up?"
"Bravely and gracefully, as always," Jack gives Matthew a serious look. "She'd like to meet with you, by the way."
Matthew's jaw drops.
" Why?"
Jack shrugs.
"The way she sees it, there's no reason you two need to remain strangers. Or keep you and Reggie apart, when he doesn't have much time left to enjoy your company."
"I don't understand why either of them would take much enjoyment from it," says Matthew quietly. "Not after how ill I used them both."
"I don't think either Reggie or Lavinia feel ill used as such," denies Jack thoughtfully. "Especially since Reggie suggested asking you to replace him as the partner at our firm. If your health is up to it, of course."
Matthew honestly can't say which part of this statement shocks him more.
"Reggie did?" is all he manages to say, his head spinning as he tries to wrap it around it.
Jack nods seriously.
"He and I are the only partners left, and woefully understaffed as it is," he explains, with no need to specify what happened to make their firm so. "And with Reggie's health worsening as it is, I've been shouldering more and more work myself. Frankly, I could use any help from you I could get. Inviting you to be a full partner is supposed to sweeten the deal. Is it working?"
"I'd love to join you," stammers Matthew, gesturing helplessly at his legs. "But…"
Jack leans forward in his seat, looking at Matthew intently.
"I considered it," he implores. "And I think we could make it work. I could do most of the clients facing; I'm doing it already with Reggie being ill more often than not. But if you could review and draft contracts – I could send them to Downton by mail, as we discussed some months ago – it would be a huge help already. I need your mind, Matthew, not your legs. So if you're feeling up to it, I'd welcome you onboard with open arms, and so would Reggie."
It's tempting, more tempting than Matthew is willing to admit. He can feel that Jack is in earnest, that it's not an offer made out of pity for a crippled friend, but a genuine need for his expertise. Yet, it's hard to imagine how it all could work – how to get around Matthew's limitations which Jack can only have a dim idea of. And there is management of Downton, of course, which he should get involved in again, although how to do that with Robert barely speaking to him remains a mystery.
"Think about it," says Jack only and changes the topic. "Where's your beautiful wife, by the way? I hoped to be finally properly introduced to her."
"Then you should have made an appointment, like a civilised being," answers Matthew drily, then sombers as he explains. "She went to Oxford to fulfil a promise to a dead man."
xxx
Apprehension squeezes Mary's stomach throughout the entirety of her train journey to Oxford and only strengthens when she reaches the warm-coloured, ornate building of Oriel College, the temporary home of the female students of Somerville College until their own building can be fully returned to its functions after its wartime role of an Army hospital. This is the building where, according to a tersely worded note, she should find Mrs Cynthia Summers and fulfil a promise made to the woman's dying husband nearly a year before.
A promise Mary very much regrets making.
What is she even going to say to Major Summers' widow? What does one say to someone who lost her husband to the war? All Mary can think of are trite and empty phrases which she knows would drive her up the wall in Cynthia's place. But she did promise and she keeps her promises, so she straightens her shoulders and asks to be led to Mrs Summers' room.
Cynthia Summers is tall, thin, black-haired and sharp-featured, which, paired with her wearing full mourning dress, makes her resemble a crow to an alarming degree. She eyes Mary shrewdly and invites her inside with a curt gesture, her gaze lingering on Mary's belly for a long moment.
"Lady Mary," she greets with no apparent warmth in her voice. "Tea?"
"Yes, please," answers Mary, taking a seat on a rather rackety chair and hating every awkward second of this meeting. A cup of tea should at least give her something to do with her hands and to hide behind as she's searching for words.
The silence, tense and thick enough to cut, remains in the room through the whole time it takes Mrs Summers to prepare and serve the tea. It's only when she takes her own seat, with both of them armed with their cups of a strong, black brew, that she gives Mary another sharp look and asks her bluntly why she's come.
Mary, for all the excruciating awkwardness of this moment, is too much of a veteran of drawing rooms to falter in her answer.
"As I said in my letter, it was a wish of your husband for me to visit you," she answers composedly. "I am not sure of his reasoning behind the request, but since it was his last one, I promised to fulfil it. I'm only sorry that it took me so long."
Cynthia Summers looks at her impassively, apparently mulling it over.
"You wrote you were an ambulance driver at the front," she says finally. "Were you his lover?"
"No!" exclaims Mary, too flabbergasted by the accusation to even feel offended by it. "Never!"
Cynthia draws her shoulders in, nearly vibrating with tension.
"You don't have to lie to me," she says, her voice still sharp but with underlying brittleness in it. "I know he was not faithful to me while he was there. He admitted it to me himself, on his last leave."
"I am not lying," answers Mary fiercely. "I have no reason to. I was never his lover and I have no idea why you suspect it might have been otherwise. He was a friend of my husband, showed me kindness when I desperately needed it, and I was the last person to see him alive. That's all."
There is a minuscule relaxation of Cynthia's stiff posture which makes Mary think she believes her.
"Then," she says, looking once again at Mary's extended belly, "this child is not his?"
Mary rolls her eyes, she can't help it.
"No," she answers with a sharpness of her own. "How could it even have been? Major Summers was killed months before it was conceived."
Cynthia shrugs, but her lips curve into a wry smile.
"I'm hardly an expert in judging stages of pregnancy," she says lightly, her shoulders losing most of their tension. "It's been only eight months since his death. For all I know, it could have been his. Would explain why you wanted to meet with me."
"It isn't," Mary repeats frostily. "My husband and I married in France in July."
Cynthia nods, accepting the explanation, and takes a long sip of her tea.
"I apologise then," she says finally. "But you can probably understand where I'm coming from. All Edward told me was that he betrayed his vows to me while at the front, multiple times. Granted, he was very drunk at the time, and rather incoherent with sobbing and apologies, so I didn't get many details out of him. I spent all the months since imagining an English nurse or a French farmer's daughter he was having a torrid affair with and hating every inch of her. So when I got your letter, and even more when I saw you at my doors, with a baby on the way…" she raises a sardonic brow. "Well, I imagine you can tell where my questions came from."
Her whole speech is matter-of-fact, but Mary can feel enough of the suffering underneath to let go of any hard feelings. Mostly, she wishes that the floor would be accommodating enough to collapse under her and swallow her deep enough to save her from the whole conversation. What, in heaven's sake, is she supposed to say to that?
"There was no nurse," she says finally, as gently as she can. "There was no affair, really. From everything I heard from him or from my husband, he loved you to the end."
Cynthia's features harden.
"He told me himself that there was. He apologised at least a dozen times, there was hardly another word he was able to utter."
Mary looks at her levelly.
"Do you really want to know the details?" she asks. "I can tell you – but I won't be able to take it back after you hear it."
Cynthia actually takes a moment to consider it.
"Yes," she answers firmly. "I think I do. At least then I will be tormented with the truth instead of whatever scenario my imagination will come up with."
Mary is very dubious whether it's a wise course of action – she's convinced that if it was Matthew, she'd very much have preferred to remain ignorant of the details – but well, it's Cynthia's decision.
"As far as I know, Major Summers never conducted an affair," she speaks in an even, carefully measured voice. "However, he's been known to frequent brothels. I don't think he ever treated it as anything more than stress relief and a reminder that he was still alive, if it helps anything."
"No," Cynthia answers roughly through gritted teeth, "it doesn't."
They remain silent for a long time. Mary takes several sips of her cooling tea. It's very bitter.
"I'm not sheltered enough not to have heard that it was common among front soldiers," Cynthia says, visibly fighting to keep her composure. "Did your husband…?"
Mary's eyebrows rise at the inappropriateness of the question – but then, she supposes, the whole conversation is nothing but inappropriate.
"No," she answers honestly, Matthew's mortified face after meeting her in front of the brothel he just exited floating in front of her eyes. "But I don't think I'd have blamed him if he did. Not there."
She wouldn't have. She reaches again for the memory of that encounter in front of the brothel, but this time to the very first seconds of it, before Matthew and then Captain Summers could clarify matters. She remembers her shock at seeing Matthew there – at assuming he must have used their services too – but she also remembers the immediately following thought that if he felt he needed that, then she would never hold it against him and that she would keep his secret from Lavinia without a moment of hesitation or guilt too. That she would have accepted anything which kept him sane or gave him a second of momentary respite, and that acceptance had nothing to do with the fact that strictly speaking she had no claims on Matthew's fidelity at the time.
"How?" Cynthia's question sounds pulled from her throat by force, rough and raw and brittle. "How would you manage that?"
The 'I don't think I'll ever manage that' remains unvoiced, but hangs in the air between them nonetheless.
Mary bites her lip thoughtfully, searching fruitlessly for words. How does one describe the indescribable? How does one convey the unspeakable horror show that was the front? The sheer inhumanity of it?
One cannot, not truly. Not good enough to make people who weren't there understand.
"Everybody who went through that had to find their own way to survive," she says quietly. "If you did not, you died out there, one way or another."
"Maybe I could have forgiven him," says Cynthia Summers bitterly. "If he had survived."
xxx
She throws herself into Matthew's arms as soon as she finds him resting on their bed.
"That bad?" asks Matthew softly, his hand soothing on her shaking back.
"The worst," she whispers. "The worst."
She thinks of her nightmares and all the different ways Matthew is lost to her forever in them. She thinks of all the near misses she knows of and probable hundreds she doesn't. She thinks of Cynthia Summers' mourning clothes and the raw suffering in her dark eyes, about her impotent rage at her wayward husband not even for betraying her by seeking French harlots but by dying before she could have made her peace with it.
"It was all too easy to see myself in her," she whispers, her fingers clutching Matthew's shirt. "To realise how easily it could have been me. How very nearly it was me."
"But it wasn't," Matthew whispers back, his arms tightening around her. She feels the baby inside her move around, maybe in response to her distress or Matthew's voice, who knows. Whatever the reason, she cherishes the reminder of his existence, of everything it means. "You didn't lose me, just as I didn't lose you. We got lucky. So terribly lucky."
Mary squeezes her eyes shut, trying vainly to stop the tears from coming.
"Then why is it so hard to feel lucky?" she asks, and she hates the brokenness in her voice. They did get lucky, she knows they did. They both survived, they are getting better – there's even this impossible hope that Matthew will be able to walk again – they have a baby on the way – and yet, and yet. "Sometimes I feel like we never left the front. Like our whole life here is only a mirage, a dream I'm waving for myself to ignore the bombs falling all around me."
"Me too," Matthew admits, and his voice sounds just as broken. "Me too, darling. But we did get out. We did. And one day we will believe it too."
xxx
The Swires' house has few enough steps that William manages to pull Matthew in his chair into the hall by himself. The maid, thankfully a different one than Matthew remembers from before, leads the way to the parlour. Lavinia comes in mere minutes after.
"Jack said you wanted to see me," Matthew hastens to say, "I would have never presumed otherwise."
Lavinia makes a quick, dismissing gesture with her delicate hand and takes a seat opposite him.
"He was right," she says firmly. "I do want to talk with you. I haven't been ready for it for a long time, but I am now. So thank you for coming."
"I must thank you first for coming to my defence after Carlisle's article," insists Matthew quietly. "God knows I did not deserve it after my abominable behaviour to you."
Lavinia looks at him steadily.
"Correct me if I'm wrong," she says, "but isn't it true that when we met in London during your first leave you believed yourself irrevocably broken from Mary? Or that when you proposed to me a year later you were honestly convinced that your love for her was wholly in the past?"
"Yes," admits Mattew torturously, "but I obviously was dead wrong on both account. If I wasn't a complete coward and found the courage to see her before I got engaged to you, it would have been instantly obvious to me and I'd have saved you a lot of heartbreak."
Lavinia's eyes don't leave his face as she asks.
"So it was obvious to you when you brought me to Downton and saw her again for the first time since you broke things off with her? Why did you keep our engagement then?"
"Because I was a selfish, despicable coward," admits Matthew resignedly. "I realised I didn't love her any less, but I thought it hopeless – I was convinced she would never be able to love me back, not truly – and I knew I loved you too. I wanted to build my life together with you, if by some miracle I managed to survive the war."
He doesn't voice his utter conviction at the time that none of it would ultimately matter because there was no way he was going to come back anyway. That he was clinging to Lavinia more out of the need to know that he mattered to somebody, that he was loved – that his inevitable death would be mourned by somebody besides his mother – than from genuine belief that he would marry her one day.
Lavinia's knowing eyes make him feel that she heard the unspoken part of his explanation too.
"That was wrong of you," she comments calmly, "but I can't blame you too much for deluding yourself. Not when you rectified the matters as soon as you saw them clearly. I don't think you ever wanted or planned to deceive me in any way, did you?"
"No," Matthew vows immediately, "never. It doesn't change that I was unfair to you – unfaithful in my heart even if my head was too stupid to see it – but I did everything in my power to fight my feelings for Mary. My mistake lay in the obliviousness that if my feelings for her were strong enough to require fighting them into submission, I had no business being engaged to you. Not until I got them under control."
"And it was impossible to do when you were constantly thrown together at the front," observes Lavinia calmly. "The ending was inevitable." She takes a deep breath before she announces. "I'm glad you met there. I can't imagine the mess we three would have made of things if you didn't have the opportunity to make your realisations when you did. Because I am convinced that you'd unavoidably come to the same conclusions – that you love Mary more than you ever loved me and that she loves you back just as deeply – and I much prefer that it didn't happen after you got married to me."
Matthew stares at her in horror.
"I would never have betrayed you if we did get married," he vows. "I could never."
The look in Lavinia's eyes is heavy.
"I believe you'd be determined not to," she allows, "but even if you didn't act on those feelings, I'd never wish to live with your regrets. I think we both deserve better, and I'm beyond grateful that you came to the same conclusion in time. That's why I don't blame you for anything between us, at least after I had some time to reflect on it."
Matthew doesn't want to admit it – doesn't even want to consider how very right she might be in her alternative scenario – but he can't truly deny that it was a distinct and horrible possibility, even if a moot one in the light of his eventual injury.
Lavinia wouldn't have been already married to him by the time he met his fate at Amiens, and for all the healing Matthew did, for all the honest gratitude he feels for having Mary as his wife and for their baby, he can't help thinking that being stuck with him is hardly a fate he would wish on anybody.
In his current state, he's hardly worth the sacrifice, even if he accepted that Mary has a different opinion on the issue.
"At least you avoided being tied to me as I am now," he says self-deprecatingly.
Lavinia's thundering expression is uncannily resembling Mary's when she hears him voicing similar sentiments.
"That would never be a dealbreaker for me," she states firmly, her voice quiet but ringing with conviction. "Matthew, do you seriously think so low of me?"
He sighs and shakes his head with a rueful smile.
"I suppose not. But you must understand," he pauses, searching for words. "It's often hard for me to see what I can offer anyone now – not when I'm receiving hundreds of daily reminders of everything I can't, not anymore."
"You're still you," Lavinia says simply. "Not a sum of things you can offer. And," she looks him straight into the eyes," you're someone I would like to call my friend, if you allow it."
He looks back at her in shock.
"Of course," he answers immediately. "I don't think you could ever stop being very dear to me. But – are you sure you want to?"
She rewards his awkward stammering with a brilliant smile.
"I am sure," she says. "I loved you very much, Matthew – it was true – but I haven't for quite some time now. But same as you, I don't think you'll ever be anything but a very dear friend to me. I don't want to never see or talk to you again. All those months when you've been injured and I hardly got any news of you except snippets from Jack – I didn't like it at all."
"And I didn't like not knowing how you are," confesses Matthew in return, and he feels the truth of this confession deeply. For years he believed he was going to marry this woman. Even though ultimately he realised he couldn't, that Mary's hold over his heart and soul was not one to be overruled, it didn't make him stop caring for Lavinia's wellbeing and happiness. He only knew that he couldn't be the one to assure it for her. But what she offered now – friendship and keeping in contact – it was a precious gift he surely did nothing to deserve.
"Friends then?" he asks with a smile, feeling a heavy weight of guilt and regret lifting from his shoulders with every sincere smile he receives in return.
"Friends," Lavinia confirms. "I am confident we will make wonderful ones."
xxx
With the four of them crowded over the table of Matthew and Mary's apartment's small dining room, with the wine and conversation flowing, it's nearly as if they were back in France, just thankfully without the bombs.
"Why don't you support the Home Rule though?" asks Matthew, his head supported on his elegant hand as he looks at Tom thoughtfully. "It's the best deal Ireland has ever been offered."
"Would you accept the Kaiser as your head of state?" answers Tom fervently. "Because that is how most of the Irish perceive the king."
"The Irish fight for independence is a righteous cause," says Sybil gravely, the same fire in her eyes. "Just as the equality of men and women, the abolition of the class system or freedom of Eastern European countries from Germany, Austria and Russia. It all boils down to freedom of choice and equal opportunity for everyone. If the Irish don't want to be part of Great Britain, then forcing them to remain as such is wrong. It's denying them their inherent right to choose their own governance."
"My, when have you become so radical?" asks Mary mockingly, sending a glare at Tom, who she blames wholeheartedly for that. "Are you going to propose shooting the royal family next?"
"No," answers Sybil, not bothered in the least. Mary remembers the time when such a dig would make Sybil scream and rage loudly enough to rival Papa. Not anymore. She's too full of conviction to be easily goaded into defensiveness. Her views, however radical, are the views of a mature woman, not a child. Even if Mary still considers both her and Tom dangerously naive. "I'm not a bolshevik and I don't approve of violence. But rejecting the methods of revolution doesn't make their goals any less noble. The world as it was led to the worst war humanity has experienced. Now that it's finally over, we need to make the world better so it's never going to happen again. And addressing the prevalent injustices is the only way to do it."
"I agree with you to a point," says Matthew. "Obviously, we can't allow another carnage like the one we went through – that's something I think every nation agrees upon after the millions who died in it on all sides. I also agree that the world as it is now is full of injustice and that if we don't do something to change it, the boiling tension can and probably will erupt in another bout of violence. But I'm afraid that by attempting to change the status quo too fast, all at once instead of gradually, we're only going to end up in bloodshed anyway. There's no such thing as a peaceful revolution, as I think the Bolsheviks showed us all too clearly."
"Easy position to take for a privileged Englishman," points out Tom, but without malice. If anything, Mary thinks that he actually enjoys the debate. "You're not the one who's suffering from the status quo."
"Touche," answers Matthew easily. "But I think my point still stands."
"Violence is not a goal of the Irish patriots," insists Tom, "and if the British can be reasonable, there's going to be no need for it."
"But can they realistically be reasonable when the Irish refuse to?" asks Matthew, a provocative gleam in his blue eyes belying his serious face. "No government is, as you call, 'reasonable' when confronted with unrealistic and excessive demands."
"A demand to acknowledge Ireland as an independent free state is neither unrealistic nor excessive," immediately quarrels Tom, and Mary groans, laying her head on Matthew's shoulder.
"I'm all for a brave new world and freedom from burdens of yore," she mutters, which, while not exactly a lie, is at least a gross exaggeration, "but does it have to come with incessant, neverending discussions of politics?"
She's fed up with the topic. She's hardly unaware of the importance of discussed issues and she's always up for a good debate, but she would enjoy this one more if it didn't have direct implications regarding her baby sister's future and wellbeing. Her anxiety is steadily growing with every word confirming that Ireland is inevitably heading for confrontation with the might of the British Empire – and that both Sybil and Tom are fully determined to jump right into the heat of things.
"When are you two going to start your personal revolution and announce your engagement?" she asks, her thoughts circling heavily to the inevitable step they need to take before they can raise the flag of revolution.
All eyes, including Tom's, rest on Sybil, who puts her hand on Tom's.
"Soon," she states calmly. "I don't like hiding it from them. I knew it was necessary, but I hated every moment of it. Tom needs to go back to Ireland soon, but he will come to Downton on Easter and we'll tell the family everything."
Mary looks up at her in alarm.
"At Easter already? Why not after your exams to medical school?"
Sybil shrugs.
"If your and Matthew's offer to fund both my tutoring and the school fees stands, then there is nothing Papa can do to stop me from going. Besides, we plan to marry when I join Tom in Ireland – I can hardly do that otherwise – and I'd like my family to be there. I rather think everyone may need some time to get used to the idea if there's going to be a chance of that."
"Of course it stands," Matthew assures her immediately. "And Robert knows it's on the table, although I doubt it will stop him from trying to use your settlement in an attempt to stop you."
Mary drops her head into her hands with a sigh. She feels the baby stirring in her, probably in response to her distress, and uses one hand to pet her belly soothingly.
"It is like going nursing in France all over again," she grumbles. "And I bet I am going to regret it just as I did then. What do you need from me when you do that?"
Sybil looks at her earnestly.
"I want you to help us figure out how to best break the news to our parents. We did what you and Matthew advised us – we did not elope, unlike you and Matthew, I could say – and we waited until Tom got a more respectable job and established himself in it. He is a journalist now. I don't think we can make it any better."
"No, you can't," agrees Mary gloomily. "And a journalist, even at a rebel Irish paper, will sound better for the general public. The problem is that Mama and Papa know full well that Tom used to be our chauffeur, so this is how they will look at it. Our first task is to make them notice that he is not a chauffeur anymore."
She sighs heavily.
"I do not see any scenario in which it does not get ugly at first," she admits. "There will be an almighty row. Papa will explode when you break the news, just as he did with medical school, there simply is no way to avoid that. And when he realises Matthew and I knew all along, or nearly so, he will blame us as well."
Sybil winces.
"We may try to hide that you two knew."
Mary shakes her head regretfully.
"Granny was already curious why Tom Branson served as one of the witnesses at our wedding. I did manage to put her off by saying we just grabbed the first person we could get away from their duties at the front, but when you reveal your relationship with him, she at least is bound to make the right conclusions. No, we will have to accept our share of the blame. We did hide it from them for years after all."
"Besides it's not like we're in Robert's good graces currently anyway," adds Matthew with a levity Mary knows is forced. She knows how deeply unhappy their estrangement from Robert makes him. "Best to let everything come out in the open and be done with it. He will have to forgive us all eventually."
"He won't see it as anything other than losing his daughter though," Mary points out quietly. "He won't get over it overnight."
Tom's expression turns stubborn.
"He won't have to lose her if he doesn't want to. Neither I nor Sybil want any quarrel with him or anyone else in our families. We love each other and want to spend our lives together, that's all. We don't harm anybody by doing it."
Mary stares at him incredulously but decides to bite her tongue. There's absolutely no point in starting that particular dispute again.
"So, Easter," she says instead, caressing her belly again and feeling a solid kick in response. "Who knows, you may be lucky, and the baby will distract Papa from attempting to run Tom with a sword."
She quite enjoys the way Tom visibly restrains a flinch.